Yahtzee
by themetaphornextdoor
Summary: "Meg is happy to play Castiel's games. The side benefits are more than worth it." Castiel/Meg, Het, NC-17, PWP, 1,085 Words


**Title**: _Yahtzee_

**Author**: TheMetaphorNextDoor (formerly 'isasminion')

**Pairing**: Castiel/Meg

**Genre**: PWP, Het, Humor/Angst (is that a thing?)

**Rating**: NC-17

**Word Count**: 1,085

**Warnings**: Light D/S, Could be seen as Dub-Con, Psychiatric institution, Mental illness themes, Mentions of pegging and similar, Language

**Spoilers**: Up to 7.17

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Supernatural or it's characters.

**Summary**: _Meg is happy to play Castiel's games. The side benefits are more than worth it._

**Author Notes**: Written for the prompt "Sometimes Meg enjoys Cas's newfound appreciation for games. Sometimes she doesn't." at the Free-For-All Dirty Porn Meme. I went with Meg enjoying them. Enjoying them a_ lot_. I can't believe I wrote this. I just don't know. I can't even figure out what genre this is. Meg is incredibly hard to write too, a lot harder than I thought. Anyway, I wish this had more character depth, but hey, it's smut, right? Enjoy.

* * *

Meg can find the fun in any situation. She'll create it herself if she has to. And she's a demon – she's basically got a PHD in black humour. The blacker the better.

And really, hospitals are fucking boring. Especially this one.

No bleeding, no gore, no operating theatres to screw with, no paramedics spontaneously bursting into flames (she'll never forget the look on the poor schmuck's face and the eyewitness reports on the news that night were hilarious).

Nope. Just talking. Groups. Talking. Pills. Talking. Sleeping, then waking up to talk again. It's fucking ridiculous.

Not that Clarence does much talking (even if he's very good at following orders in other ways), but the angel isn't going anywhere soon, so neither is she - you can't blame a girl for craving some variety.

Sex is just a starting point. On it's own, dull enough to give group therapy a run for it's money. But with a little flavouring…

What's sex without depravity? Morally obtained orgasms are boring and why just fuck, when you can fuck with convention too?

Absurdity is a kink like any other.

Which helps to explain why she's currently on all fours on top of a Twister mat in a mental institution getting fucked senseless by an angel.

The plastic is ruined, clenched in her fists every time Cas hits a particularly good spot – which he's become rather adept at.

He might not talk, might be distracted at times, but he's still there. All angelic observation, determination, persistence. Eagerness to please.

It's not her fault he's focusing all that on getting her off rather than getting better or fixing the world.

Every time they move, her nipples graze the cold plastic and it sends chills down her spine. Cas' hand is hot on the small of her back, the other stretched around between her legs to rub against her clit. She's so wet his fingers are slipping, sliding between her lips with little finesse but it's still good. She can work with it.

Meg knows he's close to blowing - she can feel his breath puffing against her neck as he curls over her, and he's starting to make those tiny, annoying, puffing noises he always does when he's nearly there. Little growls on each out breath, deeper and louder each time. She wants to remind him why they need to be quiet, but she's so close.

Just a little more.

"Don't you dare come," Meg grinds out. She rocks back against him faster, the obscene sound of his hips hitting her ass echoing through the room. "I won, you ass, I go first, remember?"

He makes an affirmative sound deep in his chest, and if Meg wasn't clenching around his cock and finally writhing through her orgasm, she'd be impressed. It's the most… coherent… sound he's made in weeks.

Of course, the only thing the angel has lost is his voice, not his mind - she's certain of it. Not that his communication skills were stellar to begin with, but he's not as crazy as he wants people to believe. She'd bet on it - and that's saying a lot.

But really, who gives a rat's ass when she's got this.

The mat's a little slick from where her juices have been dripping down her thighs and her knees are slipping on the plastic. Blue dot to yellow dot and back to blue as Cas forcefully pulls her backwards on to his cock. But this isn't Cas' rodeo and she slides to her stomach instead, enjoying the rolling aftershocks of her orgasm and dislodging the angel's hand from her oversensitive clit. Meg rests her head on one forearm. Her breasts and back are damp with sweat, warmth still spreading through her from her climax.

She grins lazily. The smell of sex is everywhere. Pussy, sweat, come. The twister mat will be unsalvageable. It's base and crude and wicked. It's profane.

It's fucking glorious.

Cas is bucking into her wildly now. Groaning in time with the wet sound her pussy makes as he drives into her again and again – she's soaking even more after her orgasm, and the slick noises are nothing short of filthy. One, two shoves and he's coming so hard she slides half a foot along the floor with the strength of his final thrust.

Meg gives him a few seconds then rolls, throwing him off her back where he's collapsed and gets to her feet. She hitches her skirt back down from around her waist, briefly considers leaving her panties under his pillow for a laugh, but decides it's not worth it. Her bra's under the corner table in the day room, so she buttons her shirt without it.

Cas is still sprawled on the floor, breathing hard. He looks defiled. Debauched. Hospital issue pants tangled around his ankles, skin sweaty and flushed, cock softening between his legs.

Almost as good as he did Monday afternoon when she couldn't be bothered finding a way to turn Battleship into sex (Snakes and Ladders was much easier) and ended up improvising.

She smirks, remembering how she'd bent him over and fucked him with her fingers until he howled and came untouched. He shot so far there was even a drop on his chin. Bet he was singing hymns to the prostate that day, Meg thinks. He should have been, anyway. It's a hell of a lot easier to find than the g-spot and that just isn't fair.

She couldn't resist though. He looked so good on his knees, head down, ass in the air. Begging for more with the greedy way he rocked his hips and pushed back on her fingers. She should bring a dildo sometime. The spare chess pieces she'd found in the same box were only good for teasing and she'd kill to know what he looks like taking more than three fingers.

She turns to find him pulling up his pants and straightening his top. Then running a hand through his hair in an attempt to calm it down, but it's a lost cause. His expression is hard to read when he finally looks at her, but his eyes are knowing. Far more knowing than Meg's comfortable with.

It's about time she left.

"Thanks for the game." She winks.

His gaze hardens before sliding away. Meg grins. She'll play his game as long as he wants. It's better than dying of boredom waiting for him to grow a pair and rejoin the world.

"Sweet dreams, Clarence."


End file.
